


Anchor

by borrowedeck



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Unorthodox therapy methods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedeck/pseuds/borrowedeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will doesn't know how to trust his mind anymore. Hannibal offers an unconventional solution in the form of a power exchange relationship.</p><p>This will probably devolve into kinky smut in later chapters. Written for the Hannibal kinkmeme (http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1847.html?thread=2543415).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hook

“It’s six-fourteen. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland. My name is Will Graham.” Will hands the notebook back to Hannibal, who looks over the drawing of a clock without comment. Same goddamn drawing every goddamn time. Will doesn’t see how it could tell him anything, but he plays along. The mantra helps in any case, he’s right about that. It notes a point in time and space he can be sure about, an anchor. Even if he’s not sure how much good it can do, Will’s desperate for any mental stability he can find.

“Have you experienced any more hallucinations or lost time since out last conversation?” Hannibal puts the notebook down on his desk, and sinks into the chair facing Will’s. He leans forward, giving Will his full attention.

Will nods. He can feel his mouth twitching, a panicked laugh fighting to get out. “Some. Yes.” He normally focuses on Hannibal’s chin as they speak, but now he can’t seem to look at the man at all, and his eyes fly across the room, searching for anything else to land on. He knows how it must look. Agitated. Unstable. “I went to go see Abigail this morning. I thought I would ask if she’d like to come feed the dogs sometimes; I can’t always be there, and dogs are good for people who are… healing.”

“Animal companions have been known to have good effects on those recovering from psychological trauma,” Hannibal supplies. Nothing in his face or tone to indicate that he’s suggesting anything about Will himself, although Will knows what it must look like. Just a fact Hannibal offers up.

“A nurse showed me into Abigail’s room, and I saw her. She was standing over Nicholas Boyle’s body holding a knife, smiling, and he was bleeding out, and I… She handed me the knife and I just knelt down next to him and started opening him up.”

“Gutting him.”

Will exhaled slowly. “Yes. And then I looked up and I was holding a fork, about to spear a piece of fish in my kitchen.”

“Do you remember anything in between these times?”

“No. I called the hospital, and they said I left before talking to Abigail. She was in a group session. She hadn’t been there at all.”

“I see.” Hannibal leans back in his chair, clearly thinking it over. “When you were gutting Nicholas Boyle, did you think you were Garret Jacob Hobbs?”

“Yes. No.” Will scrubs at his face with his hands. “I don’t know anymore.” He pulls his hands away from his face and looks at the bridge of Hannibal’s nose, as close as he’s willing to come to eye contact, trying to put more emphasis behind his words. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Doctor Lecter. I feel like I’m trying to hold onto a message written in smoke. I say I know who I am, but every day the knowledge of what ‘Will Graham’ means seems to be slipping away from me. I can’t trust my memory. I can’t trust what’s happening right in front of me.” Will’s eyes fall to the carpet. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice is earnest. “You will get through this. And always remember that I am here to help you, in any way that I can. I can help you hold on to who Will Graham is, if you let me.”

“How?” Will smiles bitterly. “Got any anti-crazy drugs for me?”

“No, but I can provide a supportive, stable environment that will help you learn to control your imagination, by first ceding that control to me, and earning it back.”

Will looks up, confused. “I admit I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“It’s a bit unorthodox, I grant you, but then our relationship has been somewhat less than orthodox for some time now.” Hannibal smiles, and Will has to concede the point; they’re somewhat nearer to friendly than professional, at this point. “I’m referring to a voluntary power exchange relationship.”

“Is that… BDSM?” Will feels, if anything, more confused, and maybe a bit embarrassed. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to be sexual with me, doctor.”

“It doesn’t have to be sexual. The basics of the relationship are merely that you would give me the authority to decide your actions, and determine the consequences if you fail to obey my instructions.” 

Hannibal looks completely serious, and Will can’t suppress a small shiver as he thinks of the doctor ordering him to do things, his stern tone and heavy accent adding more weight to the words. Will imagines that voice coming from behind his ear, Hannibal’s body pressing into his back. He tells himself the shiver is just distaste.

“You would have safe words, of course,” Hannibal continues, showing no sign of judgment at Will’s obvious reaction. “It works best if we push at your boundaries, but we would not do anything you were not comfortable with.” He looks at Will intently, reading his face. “Do you think this form of therapy would be helpful for you, William?”

Will tries to smile, then stops. His voice cracks as he starts to speak, and he clears his throat self-consciously before trying again. “Yes. I, um. I think I would like to try that. If you think it would be helpful. Yes.” He clears his throat again. “When would we start?”

Hannibal leans back, smiling slightly. “No time like the present." His voice changes, losing the trace of humor. "You will return to your home. You will shower, and dress yourself in clean clothes. You will feed your dogs, but have no food yourself. After this, come to my house, and we will decide the specifics of your role. Though we will still be in negotiation, you will be polite, and you will address me as “Doctor” only. I will address you as William. Is this acceptable?”

“Yes.” Will isn’t quite sure how this happened so fast, but he can hear his breath already start to quicken as his Doctor shows him to the door. Suddenly, Will is really looking forward to tonight.


	2. Negotiation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a show.

Will knocks on Hannibal’s door, then stands back, nervously straightening his tie. He wasn’t sure what to wear. Your psychiatrist asks you if you want to become his, what, his personal slave? Will hasn’t been taught the rules for this, and clothing is the least of it. Still, he doesn’t wonder if he made the wrong choice. That probably says something about him.

The door opens promptly, and Hannibal escorts him in. He’s wearing a cream shirt and a vest that shows off his shoulders, and there’s a dish towel hung over his arm, like a butler. “I’ve made a quick meal to sustain you through our conversation,” Hannibal says, as he leads Will into the dining room. He uses the towel to pick up a sweating bottle of wine and pour a generous amount into two glasses. As always, the clean tablecloth is impeccably set with an array of cutlery Will had no idea how to use properly, and the plated food is like a work of art. “Breast of duck with ouzo pomegranate sauce over a simple white polenta, paired with a light Pinot Noir,” Hannibal informs Will. The sauce zig-zags haphazardly across the meat, dyeing it a vibrant red as it seeps into the muscle. The smell is heavenly, and Will realizes how long it’s been since he’s eaten. His mouth waters.

Hannibal takes a seat and draws a napkin deftly across his lap. “Sit, William.”

Will drops into the chair across from Hannibal immediately, hand already reaching for his fork.

Hannibal frowns slightly. “I have not given you permission to eat yet, William.”

Will jerks his hand back. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission to eat,” he tries to joke, but it comes out sounding bitter and insolent.

Hannibal reaches across the table and swiftly grabs Will’s arm. His grip is stronger than Will would have thought, bordering on painful. “You will ask me before taking any action I have not given you previous permission to do. You will ask me every time before you eat, before you sleep, before you relieve yourself. You will respond to orders I have given with ‘yes, Doctor’ to show you have understood. You will never speak back to me as you have just done. Any violation of these rules will result in punishment as I see fit. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Doctor.” Will pauses. “May I ask a question?”

“Very good, William. Yes you may ask.” Hannibal lets go of Will’s arm and puts a piece of reddened duck in his mouth as he listens, all traces of anger gone.

“Is this the way negotiation is going to be? I thought there would be more… I thought I would have more input. And I’d like a safe word.”

Hannibal smiles. It seems it’s okay for Will to express his wishes, as long as it’s within the boundaries of the rules. “Of course, William. Your safe word is ‘ictus’. You may use it whenever you feel you cannot go through with what is occurring and we will immediately stop. If you cannot speak, three quick taps to my shoulder or wherever you can reach will serve the same purpose. Does that sound acceptable to you?”

“Yes, Doctor.” Will wonders that Hannibal expects him to be so overcome that he loses the ability to speak, but he doesn’t question it. Maybe he has something more direct in mind? Will unconsciously reaches up to rub at his neck. 

“You have my permission to speak your mind about the rules during this conversation, although I will have the final say unless you use your safe word. You also have permission to eat, that should make this more enjoyable. We don’t want you to be making important decisions on an empty stomach, do we, William?”

“No, Doctor. Thank you, Doctor.” This isn’t too difficult so far. It’s almost easier than a normal interaction; he just has to do what Hannibal tells him to do, say yes, Doctor, of course, Doctor, and it will all be fine. It’s calming. He takes a bite of the duck, appreciating the sweet-salty flavor.

“I think it would be most beneficial for this relationship to govern all aspects of your life, at least for the moment,” Hannibal says. “When you are feeling more grounded, we may scale it back to only during our sessions. Do you agree?”

“You wouldn’t ask me to do anything that would compromise my job, or my other relationships?”

“Of course not, William.”

“Then… okay. Yes, Doctor. We can do this full time, at least for now.”

“Very good, William. We have already covered the base rules: asking for permission, deference, immediate and unquestioning obedience.” Hannibal takes a sip of wine. “Even if you follow these rules there may be some uncomfortable situations I will put you in. I find physical bondage can be very useful in taming the mind, for example.”

Will swallows nervously. “And if I fail to follow the rules?”

“I will use corporal punishment to discipline you. While traditionally this is usually a spanking, I may use other methods as I see fit.”  
Will was never spanked as a child, but he’s having a hard time trying not to imagine the scene that’s vividly playing itself out in his mind; himself, leaned over the table, with Hannibal looming behind him, hitting him with the flat of his palm, each smack forcing him into his food, smearing his face with sweet red sauce and duck fat. It’s unexpectedly appealing, the idea of Hannibal’s hands on him, causing him pain. “I understand, Doctor.” If he collapsed afterward, would Hannibal run those hands through his hair or down his back to soothe him? They would be heavy and warm, Will thinks. He’d like that.

“Good. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

“What if there’s something that I would like?” Will asks, thinking again of Hannibal’s hands on him, Hannibal’s voice soft and close to his ear. It’s probably just the strangeness and the newness of the situation that’s causing these thoughts, but it’s a good idea to be prepared, just in case. “If there’s something I’d like you to do, or I’d like to… do for you.” He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks.

Hannibal seems not to notice. “You can always ask permission for it. I cannot promise that I will grant these requests, of course.”

“Of course,” Will parrots. “I think that’s all I wanted to know? I’ve never done this before, so I might have more questions when I understand it better. Doctor.”

“That is perfectly acceptable, William. Now finish your dinner. I’d like to have a short session before you leave tonight, to give you a taste of what’s to come.”

Will immediately picks up his fork and begins to eat silently. When he looks up, Hannibal is watching him intently. He isn’t smiling, but Will can tell he’s pleased.


	3. Arts and Crafts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal uses hot wax to work on Will's control.

The room looks like a study of sorts; tall bookcases line the walls, and cushioned armchairs flank the French window that look out over Hannibal’s back garden. What interests Will more is the semi-circle of unlit, colorful candles in the middle of the hardwood floor and the two small coils of dark red rope lying next to them.

“We will start out with an exercise in physical mindfulness. It will hurt somewhat, but should not be too painful, if you cooperate.” Hannibal rolls up his sleeves and picks a packet of matches off one of the bookshelves. He turns around and looks Will over. “First, take off your tie.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Hannibal watches as Will fumbles with the knot, which makes Will feel like he’s performing some sort of inept strip tease. He pulls the tail of the tie out through his collar, and holds it bunched awkwardly in his hand.

“Fold the tie and place it on that shelf. You will show respect to the space by keeping it neat. An insult to my house is an insult to me.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Will carefully smooths out the tie and deposits the neatened bundle on the bookshelf.

“Now your shirt.” Hannibal’s eyes are roving up and down Will’s body appraisingly.

“Doctor?” Is Hannibal actually expecting Will to strip for him?

“Take it off, William. Bare skin is necessary for this to work.” 

“Yes, Doctor.” Hannibal is frowning again, and Will hurries to unbutton his shirt; he doesn’t want to make Hannibal angry before they’ve even really started. He tucks the shirt under his chin to re-button and fold it. Even looking at the floor he can sense Hannibal’s gaze on his bare chest like the touch of a cool breeze, leaving goosebumps.

“Lie down on your back,” Hannibal orders, indicating the center of the candle circle. “Then bend your knees and grab your ankles.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Will lies back on the hard floor and hunches his back to assume the requested position. It forces his hips upward slightly and keeps his shoulders rolled back. Uncomfortable, but not painful by itself.

Hannibal knees down next to Will and places the matchbook next to the apex candle. He picks up one of the rope coils and securely binds Will’s left hand to his ankle. “They make implements that will perform this function more easily and swiftly, but I prefer the older methods,” Hannibal explains as he neatly ties off the last knot and takes the second coil to do the right side. “Rope requires more mindfulness and skill on the part of the practitioner, and I find that the result is much more aesthetically pleasing to the eye.” He finishes the tie and sits back on his heels. “Do you feel secure, William?”

Will cautiously pulls against the rope, and finds that he can’t do much more than squirm against the bonds. “Yes, Doctor.” The snugness of the rope adds a bit to his discomfort, but he finds the lack of mobility… agreeable.

“Good.” Hannibal strikes a match and lights the candles. Will can’t see Hannibal’s face from where he’s lying, but the candlelight sends wild, flickering shadows chasing each other across the folds of his shirt and the pale skin of his forearms. “Now I would like you to force your hips and stomach out as far as you can, and hold that position until I tell you that you may relax. I am going to apply hot wax to your chest. I expect you to remember to maintain your position throughout, or you will be punished.”

Will darts his eyes apprehensively at the candles surrounding his head, but does as he’s told. The immediate burning in his abs tells him that this position is going to require quite a bit of sustained effort.

“Do not worry, these candles do not burn hot enough to cause any real damage.” Hannibal’s smile is audible in his voice. “It will hurt though.” Will can’t quite stop a small anticipatory whimper at the thought. Almost as an afterthought, Hannibal adds, “You will make no noises unless I give you permission.”

Will bites his lip and focuses on staying in the present and keeping his stomach pushed outward. He can’t help the audible intake of breath when the first hot drop hits his stomach and trickles down towards his sternum, but he doesn’t cry out, even when that drop is followed by others, multiple colors of wax dripping down his torso, turning him into a living work of abstract art.

Hannibal doesn’t speak, and Will isn’t allowed to, so all he has to focus on is the burning of his shoulders and stomach muscles, and the bright spots of pain dotting his stomach, chest and neck. Each drop is anticipated, but it’s exact timing and placement are unpredictable, turning Will’s torso into a mass of singing nerve endings, leaving him at once wishing he could turn away from the torture and wanting more.

Will’s abs are faltering, the strain of not flinching and keeping Hannibal’s workspace steady wearing on him. He knows he can safeword out at any time, but he finds himself unwilling to admit defeat, to disappoint Hannibal the very first time they try this. He can keep going for a while longer. He can bear it. The pain isn’t even so bad; he almost wishes there were more of it, rather than the light, sporadic touches of wax, wishes Hannibal would rake his nails down through the wax, leaving bloody trail marks, or sink his teeth into Will’s stomach, marking and tasting him. He can feel himself growing hard at the thought, and absently hopes it isn’t visible through his trousers.

A hot bead of wax drips directly onto Will’s sensitized nipple and suddenly he can’t handle it any more, caves inward and falls onto his side with a whimper, the carefully patterned wax cracking and flaking as the skin over his stomach bunches. He tilts his head back to look up at Hannibal, who has sat back on his heels again, lowering the candle he holds and frowning slightly. 

“I was not yet finished with my work, William,” Hannibal says sternly. “I fear I will have to punish you for failing to comply with my orders.” His tongue flicks out to wet his fingers, and he pinches out the flame of the candle. Ignoring Will for the moment, he does the same to each candle in turn, carefully and methodically.

Will lies on his side and tries to focus on starting to breathe again. The momentary lack of pain is a relief, but the desire for physical stimulation hasn’t left him. He can’t watch Hannibal putting out the candles without imagining again that tongue licking a thin stream of blood off his chest. He doesn’t know what sort of punishment he is about to receive; the thought only increases his anticipation and discomfort.

Hannibal returns to Will and unties the rope binding his right wrist and ankle swiftly, then leaves to go sit in one of the chairs near the window. “You can untie yourself from here, William,” he says, watching impassively as Will fumbles blinding with the rope, slowly managing to unknot it, remembering at the last moment to coil it neatly instead of leaving it strewn across the floor. “I think a spanking will suffice for this offense, don’t you, William? Ten strokes for destroying my work, and only two more for making noise when it was not permitted, since it was clearly unintentional.”

Will looks up at him from where he is still lying trembling on the floor, not sure what he’s supposed to do. Twelve strokes shouldn’t be so bad though, he imagines. He has nothing to be worried about.

“Stand up and take off your trousers,” Hannibal orders.

Will stands shakily, then hesitates.

Hannibal’s face hardens. “Take off your trousers, William.” His tone is harsh and unyielding.

Will slowly unbuttons and removes his trousers, leaving him dressed in only a thin pair of blue boxers, mismatched white socks and the colorful mess of flaking wax covering his chest. The bulge in his boxers is clearly visible.

“For refusing to immediately obey my orders, another five strokes,” Hannibal says. He beckons Will over. “Come here, William. You will count out your punishment as I deliver it.”

Will walks over and lies over Hannibal’s lap as he is directed. Even now, wondering whether he’ll be able to stand the seventeen strokes he’s due, he appreciates the physical contact with Hannibal, solid and stable beneath him.

Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on Will’s backside, sending a spark of pleasure up through his spine. “You have my permission to cry out if necessary, William.”

The hand is removed and comes down with a force greater than Will had expected. Pain shoots through him, and he yelps aloud. “One,” he gasps, remembering his orders. The smack has the side effect of shifting the material of his boxers against his groin, pairing the pain with a small burst of pleasure. As Hannibal’s hand comes down again and again, Will finds himself growing harder, even as he starts to cry from the pain and exhaustion. By the time he says “seventeen” in a breathless moan, his ass is on fire and he’s fully erect, pressing into Hannibal’s thigh, bucking against it slightly in a vain attempt to relieve the ache.

Hannibal smooths his hand over the developing bruises a few times, a gentle caress that Will would mock in any other situation, then orders Will to dress himself and sit across from Him, ignoring Will’s evident lust entirely. Will obeys, wincing as the rough material of his trousers brushes him, and sits down gingerly in the armchair, which is thankfully soft and cushioned.

“I think we should take a break to discuss your reaction to this treatment,” Hannibal says, back in psychiatrist mode already. Will thinks he should get whiplash from that change. “Do you feel present, Will?”

“Oh I feel… present.” Will laughs. His throat feels raw, and dried tear-tracks crack on his skin as it moves. “Very present.”

“Good.” Hannibal pauses. “You seemed to have a strong reaction, especially to the punishment portion, but I am not sure I would call that reaction adverse.”

“No.” Will can feel the blood rising in his cheeks. This is embarrassing. On the plus side, the conversation is calming him down, and the urge to excuse himself to the bathroom so he can stick his hands down his pants is fading. “Does that mean there’s something else wrong with me, Dr. Lecter?”

“Not at all, Will,” Hannibal assures him. “Enjoyment of corporal punishment is an entirely natural and quite common phenomenon. It merely means we have discovered a preference of yours that you were previously unaware of. Does this make you uncomfortable continuing the treatment?”

“Uncomfortable?” Will grins, suddenly amused. “I just got aroused being spanked by my psychiatrist, after being tied up with rope and covered in hot wax. I’m not sure uncomfortable covers it anymore.”

“Would you like to stop?” Hannibal’s voice is even, displaying no preference one way or the other.

“No,” Will says quickly. “I’d like to continue, if you’re okay with that. I mean, if my behavior didn’t disturb you too much.” He winces, remembering how he was essentially humping Hannibal’s leg by the end. The ever-dignified psychiatrist must have been disgusted with him.

“Not at all, Will. I will be happy to continue,” Hannibal says. Will risks a glance at his face, and he does seem more pleased than otherwise. “Now we should decide what your rules for tomorrow are. I will most likely not see you, but it is important to maintain the dynamic. I suggest that you call me to check in before eating or sleeping, and I will give you further instruction at that point. And of course, you should call me or come see me immediately if any more hallucinations or losses of time occur.”

“Okay.” Will smiles briefly, trying to show that he appreciates the care Hannibal takes with him. “I can do that.”

“Also,” Hannibal adds as he shows Will out, “I think it best if you do not masturbate before seeing me next. Control, for you, is clearly related to your sexual drives. We may have to include that in our sessions.”

Will drives back to Wolf Trap, feeds the dogs, and gets ready for bed. Showering takes longer than normal, as he picks the wax off his chest, wincing as it catches on his sparse chest hair. The water feels gloriously clean, and he aches all over in a way that somehow manages to go straight to his groin. When he catches sight of his back in the mirror, he can see the bruises on his ass are darkening.

He changes into a clean pair of boxers and tumbles into bed. For once, he falls asleep quickly. He dreams that Hannibal is standing behind him with his arms circling Will’s torso. Hannibal rends Will’s chest with his nails, and a ravenstag daintily dips its neck to tongue at the beads of blood. Hannibal’s mouth is next to Will’s ear, whispering something dark and important; it fills his stomach with heat.

Will wakes up the next morning, feeling the most well-rested he has in months, to find out that he came all over his sheets in his sleep. He can’t remember what he dreamed about.


End file.
